Properties of Light
by noavail
Summary: I don't think you're crazy, but I don't know what to think instead." What it might look like for Joan to share her secret.
1. Chapter 1

Timeline: After "Recreation."  
  
Telling  
  
Luke followed Joan out of the dry cleaners', both of them encumbered with plastic bags and hangers. It had been two months since the semi-formal, but the day-to-day chaos of Girardi family life had gotten in the way of such chores until now. As Joan continued walking, Luke asked again.  
  
"How did she know your name?"  
  
"MYOB, Luke." Joan saw the bus stop and kept walking: with the current line of conversation, it didn't seem safe to just stand around.  
  
"No --- wait. You paid for that in cash, and the slip was just a number. How did she know your name? And . . . and last week, the liquor store? How did he know your name? And Adam's?"  
  
"Hey--I just remembered. I have to go, um, meet Grace and Adam for that Chem project. It's due tomorrow, and we have to clean up the lab notes and . . ."  
  
"It's due next Tuesday. How do these people know who you are?"  
  
"I have to go now --- piss off!" She was almost running, which was never something Joan did well, even without a semi-ball gown in her arms. It wasn't hard for Luke to catch up and block her.  
  
"PISS OFF, LUKE! Don't make me hit you!"  
  
"Joan, something's. . . going on with you."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
"How do those people know who you are?"  
  
"What's with the circular questioning? What is this--"who's on first?" Seriously, Luke--mind your own damn business and leave me alone!"  
  
Luke didn't respond, but he also didn't slow down: he continued to dog his sister's steps, his expression a mixture of resolve and apprehension. Joan continued powering down the street, trying to ignore him, until she was out of breath. She sat on a bus stop bench, panting, and glared again at Luke. "What the hell is wrong with you?"  
  
"Joan, you're . . . you've gotten weird. . . Weird-ER. I haven't said anything, but it's not because I haven't noticed. And it was weird when the liquor store guy knew about the party, but it's even weirder that the dry cleaner knew where you'd worn that dress. I think Mom and Dad think you're, kind of, um, going crazy."  
  
"And?"  
  
"But that doesn't explain those people."  
  
"And?"  
  
"So now I want you to. Explain those people. And. . . the boat, and the garage sale, and. . . Ramsay, and . . ."--he still snickered a bit when he said the next two words--"cheerleading tryouts. I don't think you're crazy, but I don't know what to think instead."  
  
Joan's stomach had been churning since Luke first started asking questions: it gave another lurch, and she felt the sweat on her face turn cold in the afternoon air. She had clenched one fist, unconsciously, and was blinking less than usual. Fight or flight, she realized. This is how it feels. From all the thoughts and images careening through her brain, she snatched and held on to one in particular. He wouldn't have let Luke see him--her?-- if it wouldn't end out all right. So there had to be a safe way to handle this. She just needed awhile, to figure out what it was.  
  
"Luke, I. . . um, I can explain it, But not right now. I . . . look, you have to wait until I, um, until I can come up with the right way to tell you."  
  
"Can't you just say it now, and I'll figure it out? You don't have to write out a script here, Joan. You can just."  
  
"Look, geek, do you want me to explain, or not?"  
  
"Um. . . .I want you to explain. Obviously."  
  
"Then shut up and give me awhile. I'll tell you later."  
  
"How much later?"  
  
Joan sighed. "How long before you utterly wig out and start blabbing to Mom about the dry cleaner?"  
  
One of Luke's best and worst qualities had always been the ability to see himself through the eyes of an objective observer: he considered her question, and then told her the truth. "Realistically? About 24 hours, unless you threaten to kill me if I tell. And then, I'd, uh, probably tell Mom that you threatened to kill me. Honestly, Joan, you've been freaking me out."  
  
"Fine. I'll come to your room after dinner tomorrow."  
  
"Okay. Um, thanks."  
  
"Leave me alone until then."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And, um, Luke?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Try not to freak out any more than necessary."  
  
"Now, or tomorrow?"  
  
"You pick."  
  
Luke smiled at her then, with what he hoped was reassurance, before watching his sister stand up and walk away.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------- (Work in progress. . . .)  
  
So I have a sense of how to do this: it'd be good to hear other people's thoughts, too. My writing's gotten pretty sloppy through years of neglect, but I've decided to give it a casual go again. Fan fiction seems like an entertaining way of testing the waters before throwing myself back into the whole spoken-word thing: thanks to the folks who said nice things about my last one ("Limitations") , for reminding me that it's fun to get your stuff out there. The great thing about well-done shows like Joan of Arcadia is that you get to play with big ideas and interesting, fully-formed characters, after someone else does all the work of first coming up with the characters and ideas. 


	2. Chapter 2

The bus arrived and Joan stepped onto it without really looking, noticing as she flashed her pass that she was the only passenger. She hated being the only other person on a bus, because she never really knew what etiquette demanded. Usually, small talk was needed for two people in close quarters--but then again, the placard above the driver's seat warned against engaging the driver in "unnecessary conversation." As she moved towards the back, she felt compelled to speak at least once.  
  
"Slow night, eh?"  
  
"I've got the "Out of Service" message on the front of the bus. Keeps most people off. Guess you didn't notice. . . .Joan."  
  
"God. . . drives a bus."  
  
"I like buses. I have a thing for buses. You've seen me on a bus before."  
  
"Yeah, but you've never , um , driven one before. Wait--does this bus even exist? Are we in some Twilight Zone? Cuz , if it does exist, shouldn't you be picking up the other folks who need it?"  
  
"The bus exists , Joan. But there's another one right behind it. Just because I'm driving this bus for you doesn't mean other people won't get where they're going. Now , let's stop talking shop and get down to the real issue."  
  
"Speaking of things existing , what am I supposed to tell Luke?"  
  
"__Supposed__ to tell Luke?"  
  
"He's asking questions. You . . . you let him see enough to make him ask questions."  
  
"I didn't make him do anything. Questions are just another way he can exercise free will."  
  
"God!"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Name in vain. And that joke doesn't age well."  
  
"Then stop setting me up for it , Joan. In the Old Testament, folks thought they'd get smote just for saying my name at all."  
  
"What do I say to Luke?"  
  
"What do you want to say to Luke?"  
  
"I don't know! I. . . want him to back off, but I don't think he's going to. You know how rational he is , and he's like a dog with a bone when he gets a new idea. He.. . .he __needs__ to understand it , or his whole world view will fall to bits. He's not going to drop it until this makes sense to him."  
  
"I'm glad to hear that you understand your brother. Sometimes he worries that nobody does."  
  
"So , do I tell him? Or do I come up with something else that he can accept instead? Or. . . or wait. Maybe. . . maybe __you__ could tell him. You know , make him understand."  
  
"You mean , show up , shake his hand , and tell him who I am?"  
  
"Yeah. You told me , remember?"  
  
"No." He replied, to her request rather than the question. "What happened to you is a one-shot only deal. Don't ask me why. If I ran around proving myself to everyone who asked the right questions , the world would be a very different, very much more confused place."  
  
"Information doesn't confuse people. Not knowing does."  
  
"Joan, I __made__ people. You don't get to tell me what makes them confused."  
  
"If I try to again , are you going to smite me?" She knew she was pushing it, but she didn't want to stop. Kevin wasn't the only one who made jokes when he was angry.  
  
"There's no smiting. I don't smite. But neither , Joan , do I pop out like a rabbit from a hat whenever you think you have something to prove." His voice was stern, but without anger. She instantly felt cowed.  
  
"Sorry. It's just. . . . I don't know what to do here. And the last time I didn't know what to do , I really screwed up , didn't I? " She was glad , then , that she didn't have to explain it further: just thinking the words "art show" made her turn six shades of red. She continued. "It's just , I need some help."  
  
"Some help."  
  
"Some idea of what I should tell him. Is it okay for me to tell him? How do I tell him? What do I say? How can I make him stop asking questions without making him think I belong in a nuthouse?"  
  
"Joan." His voice was softer this time. "You're asking for certainty. You're asking for me to protect you from yourself: you're asking me to promise , in advance , that you're going to do it right. You're. . . you're looking at the test and asking for the answer key."  
  
"It's your test , " she said, quietly and without real conviction.  
  
"I don't give answer keys. I won't even tell you if I have one or not. Trust yourself , Joan: you've gotten yourself this far." He wasn't surprised to see the despair on her face when he said that. She knew there was no point in challenging him further.  
  
"Um , my stop's coming up. I guess."  
  
"Look , I can give you two bits of an answer. And absolutely nothing beyond that."  
  
Joan felt a little stirring of hope, hearing that.  
  
"One: you're right to believe that I knew , at the dry cleaners , that hearing me speak to you would make Luke ask questions. Two: Luke has an old physics textbook. He bought it for sixty cents at a church sale back where you used to live. There's some interesting information on the properties of light."  
  
"Physics textbook? That's , um , all you got?"  
  
"No. But that's all you're getting. Exit to the rear, please: this is your stop."  
  
  
  
___________________________________________  
  
God's voice is fun to write: not sure if I'm letting him explain too much, however (e.g. answering her questions about the bus existing). He seems less willing to go that route on the show. I've actually written the whole damn thing now, but I want to tweak a bit more before posting the rest. Thanks for reading thus far, and feel free to critique.  
  
  
  
Ps: would the properties of light be in a physics textbook, or are we talking chemistry or biology here? I was never much for the sciences. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner the next night was quiet but uneventful. Luke, for once, had very little to say about his latest train of inquiry (he'd moved on from the rail gun and was now waist-deep in the nature of superposition as put forth by Schrodinger's cat model). Kevin smugly concluded that his little brother really had been listening when he told him that, while not everything had to be about sex, it was also true that not everything was about science. Joan focused her attention on sculpting mashed potatoes. After dinner, she voluntarily washed all the dishes for the first time in weeks before steeling herself to knock on Luke's door.  
  
"Come in."  
  
Luke stood up from his computer when he saw his sister's frame in the doorway. "Um, have a seat."  
  
"I don't do heavy conversations with you, Luke. This. . . this is weird."  
  
"Yeah. But it's not any weirder than. . . after the accident. You know, when. . . . when I walked in on you crying in the hospital chapel."  
  
"Yeah. What the hell were you doing in there? You're, um, you're not religious." It felt easier than she had expected, talking to him like this.  
  
"No atheists in the foxholes. I was going to do the same thing you were doing."  
  
They let some time pass then, as she settled herself on the edge of his bed and he hit 'stand by" on the computer before swiveling the chair towards her. He took a deep breath before breaking the silence.  
  
"So."  
  
"So, why do all those people know who I am?"  
  
"Yeah. Pretty much."  
  
"You have to promise not to tell anyone."  
  
"Even if. . .even if you're in danger?" He didn't know why, but he'd been troubled for weeks by that idea. Things that didn't make sense were, in Luke's opinion, not safe.  
  
"I'm not in danger, dumbass! And. . . you have to promise, or I'm walking away."  
  
"I promise."  
  
"Swear up and down on a stack of. . . of something. Of those things," she continued, gesturing at his bookshelf. "Of all the scientific stuff that makes it all make sense to you."  
  
"I swear on Newton's grave that I will not tell anyone", he said, with a self-conscious chuckle.  
  
"Geek." They both smiled.  
  
"Now tell me." 


	4. Chapter 4

"Um. . . okay. Wow. . . This is hard. So, I'm not crazy, all right? I'm not crazy. Are we done yet?"  
  
"Um, well, NO. . ."  
  
"You're going to laugh at me. "  
  
"I won't." He paused. "I'll try not to. Look, you said you'd tell me. So tell me. Please."  
  
"Well, the thing is, um, the thing is. . . there's something happening. And it's not my imagination, and it's. . . it's not my fault. And I'm not crazy, but. . . But . . cripes, I can't say it. It's too weird. It's, it's true, but it's too weird."  
  
"Then write it down." Luke was trying his best to be patient. "Type it out, for God's sake." He gestured at the computer.  
  
Joan giggled nervously, suddenly aware of the irony in God already having been alluded to twice without her even getting a word out about what she was there to tell him. "You promise not to laugh?"  
  
"I promise I'll try not to."  
  
"Fine. Here we go. The thing is. . . the thing is. . .Ah, screw it." She pushed him a bit out of the way and reached for the keyboard. After a flurry of typing, she shut her eyes and stepped backwards, bumping her way back to the bed. He read in a silence that lasted too long.  
  
"You. . . um . . . you've been talking to God."  
  
She shrugged and gave him a shy, nervous smile. "Yeah."  
  
"And he's . . . um. . .he's talking to you."  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
"And he's telling you to do things."  
  
"Yup."  
  
"And you're. . . um. . .you're doing them."  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
"I changed my mind. You really are crazy. Shit, Joan ---now can I tell somebody? Cuz, um . . . cuz I think you might need help."  
  
She laughed again, scared but still amused, partially convinced that he'd see the humor in it also. He just stared at her, mouth slightly open, willing himself not to scoot the chair back.  
  
"Look, Luke, I know it sounds insane. And that's. . . that's why I know I'm not crazy, you know? Crazy people don't think they're crazy, do they? Isn't that the whole problem with crazy people? That they don't think they're crazy at all?"  
  
"That's, um, not the whole problem with crazy people, Joan."  
  
"Okay, fine. But still. I. . . I'm not done yet. I think I can explain."  
  
"Explain. Please."  
  
"Well, God um, God can look like anyone, and he. . . I don't always know it's him, and at the liquor store. . . okay, fine, I can't explain. But. . . but I can prove it."  
  
"Okay, prove it."  
  
"Well. . . well, fine, I can't really prove it, either. He said I can't prove it. But I can. . . I can give you some evidence."  
  
"Um. . . okay."  
  
She'd thought about this all night, and come up with the best argument she knew how to make. "Do you remember, the night of the TriMathalon?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"How we were driving in the middle of nowhere, and we found Dad? Remember what you said about how impossible that was?"  
  
"It was, um, it was the weirdest coincidence ever, but. . .but it happened, so it wasn't impossible."  
  
She repeated that back, taking some comfort in the fact that he had said it. "If it happens, it isn't impossible. . . Luke, what if I said that I drove us there on purpose? That, um, somebody told me to drive in the country that afternoon, before we even knew that Dad had been taken hostage?"  
  
"He wasn't a hostage, he was. . . never mind. That's irrelevant. Someone told you?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Um, okay. I . . . don't know what to think about that. Keep going."  
  
"Okay, what about all the weird things you've heard me say? Like, when you, um, you asked me about when I'd have sex, and I said it might not be up to me?"  
  
"I don't. . . I don't even want to touch that one. Keep going."  
  
"Or when I said the garage sale wasn't even my idea. Or the party, when I said I just did what I was told. You looked at me funny when I said those things."  
  
"You're telling me to believe that you're. . . um, not crazy because I've heard you say crazy things."  
  
"Look, I'm just saying that, if you put those things together with what I just told you, they make better sense, don't they? . . .And, remember back in September, when I asked you if you believed in God? If you believed that God could just walk around like a regular person?"  
  
"You sounded pretty crazy then, too . . ."  
  
"But the point is, I wasn't acting crazy back then. That was way before, um, AP Chem and the chess thing, and the boat and the cheer squad and. . . and wait, I've got another one."  
  
"Okay. . ."  
  
"Adam's sculpture."  
  
"Not your sanest hour, Joan." He was being too hard on her--he wasn't letting her explain. But he wasn't sure he could accept where this conversation was going. He felt like he'd lost, either way. When your sister tells you she's talking to God, which option is scarier: that your sister is insane, or she's telling the truth?  
  
"Look, listen to me a second. You know I'm not a bad person. You know, um, you know how much I care about Adam. You know it's not like me to rip someone's stuff up. . . "  
  
"If I recall correctly, you, er, smashed it with a chair."  
  
She ignored that. "And you know how awful I felt about it afterwards. But, doesn't it make a little more sense if I tell you that, um, God asked me to keep that sculpture out of the art show?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because, look what happened. When he sold it, he decided he could drop out of school. And Adam. . . Adam can't drop out of school, okay?" She still doubted almost every bit of that horrible experience, but Joan never wavered when she thought about that.  
  
"He didn't."  
  
"Because I smashed it. Because I didn't listen to God the first time around, and I didn't know what else I could do. Doesn't it, um, make more sense when I tell you about that?"  
  
"Why does God care if he drops out of high school?"  
  
"He hasn't told me. He doesn't always explain why it matters. Look, that's too big a tangent, okay?"  
  
"Fine. Keep going."  
  
"Okay, last thing. The whole reason you're asking in the first place. That lady at the dry cleaners. The guy at the liquor store. Do you. . . um, do you remember the week before the yard sale, how we were walking to school and that lady stopped me?"  
  
"Um, no . . . "  
  
"Think, Luke! Think harder! She was, um, a frumpy white lady, hanging a sign. Do you remember what the sign said?"  
  
"I didn't read it."  
  
"You saw it, right?"  
  
"I guess so."  
  
"Think again. What did it say?"  
  
"Um. . . those signs usually say "Yard Sale". Or something." He looked at her for confirmation, then closed his eyes and thought again. "It said "Yard Sale. On. . . on Euclid Avenue. On our street."  
  
"At our house, Luke."  
  
"You're saying that was God?"  
  
She nodded.  
  
"You're saying God wanted. . . us to have a yard sale? Why would. . . ?"  
  
"Look, I can't tell you that. It's, um, it's somebody else's secret this time. But you saw her."  
  
"I. . . I guess so. It's just. . .Joan, this doesn't make any sense. I mean. . . " he squinted and touched his hand to his temple. . . "I mean it might make sense, but I don't know if I believe it. If I, um, want to believe it. If, um, I can. I'm a scientist. I need more proof than this."  
  
Joan nodded. She had expected this. This, she knew, was why she had, finally last night, snuck into her brother's room and snuck out with the textbook.  
  
"Look, it's kind of like light, okay?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, light is weird, right? It's like, a wave, but it's also a particle. But you can't see both of those at once, can you?" The question for Joan was not merely rhetorical: talking science with her brother felt like playing chess again.  
  
"Well, no."  
  
"No! You can't!" Joan said, triumphantly and with no small amount of relief. "So, if you see light as a particle, you have to, um, still believe that it's also a wave. And if you see it as a wave, you have to believe that it's also a particle."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And if you can do that, you can believe me. I can't prove it to you--I can't pull God out of a hat and show him to you. But you know I haven't acted crazy, before. And you know that I still don't sound crazy, most of the time. And you know that we found Dad on that road, and that I asked you about God before I started doing weird things, and that, um, random strange people seem to know a lot about me. You have enough information to mostly convince you that I'm telling the truth. "  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And you're just going to have to take the rest on faith, Luke. You don't get to see the rest right now. You can still be a scientist and believe me when I say that I'm telling you the truth."  
  
So there it was, he guessed, the fullness of her argument. He still didn't know what to do with it. It still felt safer to pick at the details. "Um, Joan. . . since when do you take enough of an interest to know that stuff about light?"  
  
"You really want me to tell you?"  
  
Luke nodded.  
  
"Since God told me to look it up in that old physics textbook you got for sixty cents at the white elephant sale at our church two years back."  
  
"You, um, you didn't go to that sale with me. How. . . how did you. . ." Joan waited, watching the shift from wariness to baffled acceptance that played slowly out on her brother's face.  
  
"Oh."  
  
She smiled at him. "Yeah."  
  
"Um, okay."  
  
"Are we, um, done here?"  
  
"I guess so. For now."  
  
"Remember, you promised not to say anything. To anyone. Ever. About this."  
  
"I know."  
  
Joan gave her brother an uncharacteristic pat on the shoulder as she turned to leave his room. Before she reached the door, though, he thought again and called out to her.  
  
"Joan?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Is it, um, are you scared at all? I mean, it's. . .I just think I'd be scared."  
  
"Yeah. Sometimes. It's not like he's, um, all that nice to me, all the time. And some of the stuff he asks me to do is. . . pretty weird. But, you know, it's kind of okay, because. because we found Dad. And." there was more she could tell him, now, more even that she wanted to tell him, but something stopped her. Now that she had finally let someone else in on it, it was like cracking the door to a house that had been boarded up for years--a place that had, perhaps, been nice once and might well be nice again. At this second, standing at the edge with the light seeping into the gray hallway, she didn't want to walk in too far. She didn't feel ready to see all the rooms.  
  
Luke was still looking at her, expectantly. "And?"  
  
"And I'm, um, going to bed now. Look, I don't think I want to talk about it anymore. Not right now, and, maybe, not so much ever. You're, um, you're my kid brother. You know?"  
  
Luke accepted that.  
  
"If you. . . need anything, though."  
  
He wasn't sure what to say next. As much as Luke loved the people around him, as painfully, awkwardly hard as he tried to stand up for them and be there for him and understand the differences between their view of the world and his own, he never really found himself able to say the right thing. Thoughts were easy. Actions could be managed. Words and feelings, though, were to Luke like science was to Joan. He wasn't too good with the fuzzy parts of life. As much as he hated it, he accepted that, too.  
  
Joan flushed and shuffled her feet, remembering how Luke had been acting on the day of the TriMathalon. The day they found their father on that random dirt road. The day Luke had decided that his sister must be pregnant. She remembered how he had tried to help her stand up, how flustered he had been when he bumped into her at the office. She remembered how confused Adam had sounded, when he told her a month later about his conversation with Luke. Here they were again, then, his clumsy, blind attempts to protect his big sister. She had seen him for so many years as a pest, an annoyance--a genius, yes, but fundamentally a kid and a pain in her ass. It'd take Joan awhile to get used to the idea that Luke could be an ally.  
  
He was still looking at her, waiting, when she snapped out of her thoughts and back into the moment. He still didn't know how to finish that sentence. Joan walked up to her brother and cuffed him playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "If I need anything, I know who to ask."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Goodnight, Luke."  
  
"Goodnight." 


End file.
